


A Winter's Tale

by paranoid_fridge



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, And a pinch of angst, Dorks in Love, Dwarf Courting, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romance, Winter Sports, a dose of humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 06:08:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13048077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paranoid_fridge/pseuds/paranoid_fridge
Summary: Bilbo stays in Erebor after the battle. He's in love with Thorin, that much he can admit to himself. What Thorin feels, he doesn't know, but he's happy they get to spend time together. And maybe, just maybe, his affections are returned.Or: Thorin slyly courts Bilbo after dwarven custom, Bilbo pines for Thorin, and at one point they end up ice sailing on the lake. It - like the hair brushing session - is less romantic than both parties initially expected, but enjoyable nonetheless.





	A Winter's Tale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MaxxR](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaxxR/gifts).



> Dear MaxxR, 
> 
> have a happy holiday and I hope you enjoy your gift! It may have gotten slightly schmoopy in parts, but I do hope it makes for an enjoyable read on a cold winter evening. It's gotten rather longer than I expected it to... ^^;

Large snowflake quietly drift downward from a darkening sky as Bilbo watches night fall from Erebor’s ramparts. Across a snow-covered stretch of land warm lights flicker to life in Dale. Smoke rises over recently repaired rooftops, disappearing into the low-hanging clouds. A sharp wind rises, carrying faint sounds from the city through the otherwise silent evening.

Bilbo shivers, burrowing deeper into his makeshift coat. Dori stitched it together from old dwarves cloaks and shirts, and the sleeves are a bit long and too large, but now Bilbo finds himself thankful for that. His toes have long since grown numb from the cold stone underneath, and his cheeks burn from the icy air.

“Bilbo, out for some fresh air?”

Freshly fallen snow crunches under heavy dwarven boots. Bilbo turns to look over his shoulder. Thorin leans heavily on a sturdy cane as he approaches, and the paleness of his face is stark in contrast to the dark furs wrapped around his shoulders, but the smile he directs at Bilbo is warm.

Something in Bilbo’s chest stirs at the sight. “Just contemplating how glad I am not to be on the road right now,” Bilbo replies lightly. “What brings you here?”

Gandalf had set out westward nary a day after the battle’s conclusion. He had asked Bilbo to join him, promising to deliver him all the way to the borders of the Shire. But as Thorin’s fate then had been uncertain, as the entire situation had been so brittle and precarious, Bilbo had found himself incapable of leaving. After everything, he had wishes to see the story through. 

And while he’s aware not all dwarves are fond of his continued presence in Erebor after the Arkenstone fiasco, he is glad he stayed. Seeing Thorin, Fili and Kili recover and watching life return to Erebor soothes the horrors of the battle. Makes him see that all the sacrifices and the pain were not in vain.

“Balin kicked me out,” Thorin admits, stepping up to the stone banister next to Bilbo. Snowflakes settle on his hair, sparkling like diamonds as the world is bathed in purple light as the sun slips under the horizon somewhere beyond those heavy clouds. 

Bilbo chuckles softly, studying Thorin’s profile up close. The scar on his cheek has begun to fade; barely visible in the dim light today. His breath fogs in the air as he gazes out on the landscape, and Bilbo wonders what he sees. Is the snow-covered scenery before him a reminder of what has been lost?

“I am sure he had a good reason,” Bilbo returns, and Thorin grimaces. Nearly half of the mountain must have heard Oin yell at Thorin - “I didn’t stitch you back together just so you can kill yourself with work!” - and Bilbo is glad to see the near desperate light to Thorin’s eyes gone. Back when he first woke the desire to make amends and bear responsibility had Thorin throw himself into Erebor’s reconstruction with recklessness and no regard for his own health.

“Balin also told me you’ve been a great help to Gloin with updating the accounts,” Thorin says after a moment, turning to look at Bilbo with a smile. “Apparently the task was upgraded from completely, utterly, and impossible to be completed before the next age is over to merely utterly impossible.”

“Heh,” Bilbo snorts and brushes a wayward lock out of his face with a grin. “I’m not sure I agree with that assessment.”

Thorin playfully raises his eyebrows. “So what is your take on it?”

“Impossible to achieve within this age, at least,” he declares, shivering again when an icy breeze blows down from the mountain’s higher reaches. His toes throb with cold, reminding him he’s been out here for a while. The snow falls thicker now, too, and night has swallowed the distinct shapes of Dale’s crumbling walls.

“Well, I will relay that to King Thranduil in our next missive then,” Thorin replies, his eyes crinkling in a manner that transforms his entire face and makes Bilbo’s heart sing. He regrets nothing, he thinks in these moments when his fingers tingle. Every bruise, every scratch, every drop of spilled blood, they were all worth it.

“He will be most pleased,” Bilbo mutters sarcastically, glancing away. Thorin’s smiles are bad for his health, because somewhere along the way his foolish heart had gone and fallen in love with the King under the Mountain. 

Thorin tilts his head to look down at Bilbo again. “Shall we return inside?” he asks. “You look a slight pale, and I dare not risk my cousin’s wrath.” For all the respect Gloin shows the King under the Mountain, when it comes to professional affairs Gloin insists on fair treatment for all; meaning he gets to shout at everyone equally loudly.

“One more moment,” Bilbo says, slipping his frozen fingers inside the thick sleeves of his coat. They are too large, but that allows him to easily fit his hands through, while he takes another deep breath. The cold air burns in his lungs, but it also grounds him. For all that Erebor is warm and well-lit, the lack of sunlight and sky disorient him.

Barely anything more than Dale’s oil lamps and fires and a speck of light to the distant west remain now, but it is a natural darkness. Next to him, something rustles, and then Thorin rests his own, fur-trimmed cloak around Bilbo’s shoulders. It’s still warm. Blood rises to Bilbo’s cheeks; a flush that does not stem from the cold, when Thorin’s hands linger on his shoulders and there is but a hand’s breadth of space left between their bodies.

“Don’t catch a cold,” Thorin says, so close his breath tickles the top of Bilbo’s ear. “You’ve but recovered from the battle.” One hand leaves Bilbo’s shoulders to gently trace the outline of a healing scar underneath his hair; and Bilbo’s breath catches in his throat.

He knows that hair is special to dwarves. For all that Thorin has taken on the duties of the crown after he awoke; there is affection in his gestures toward Bilbo that makes Bilbo’s head spin. He knows Thorin is fond of him, knows that they are close. But he also knows that the feelings in his own chest are another matter entirely - and with their bond freshly mended, their different positions, and the fact that Bilbo eventually must leave - caution him not to hope for more. If they can restore their friendship, that is all Bilbo needs.

Bilbo twists his head to look up at Thorin. “You oughtn’t catch a cold either, Thorin,” he says, even as his body warms from the heavy cloak. There’s more snow on Thorin’s hair now, and Bilbo can’t help but worry. “Oin would have my head.”

Thorin laughs; a quiet, peaceful sound. “We dwarves are hardy folk, you should know that by now,” he replies, eyes sparkling as he removes his hands but leaves his cloak on Bilbo’s shoulders. “But I shall head inside before anybody sends a search party after me.”

His stomach does strange backflips, even as Bilbo’s chest tightens. Hardy folk, yes, but he cannot forget how still Thorin was, cannot forget the long moments on the ice when he thought all was lost. That Thorin stands here now, alive and smiling, is a miracle.

“Don’t stay out too long, Bilbo,” Thorin says as he turns to leave the small balcony. “Lest I have to send a search party out for you.”

Without the cloak, his figure looks smaller, Bilbo thinks faintly. Less untouchable and legendary, and more humane. The dwarf Bilbo would face Smaug all over again for.

“I won’t be long,” Bilbo promises.

Once Thorin’s steps fade away he looks back to the landscape. Night has claimed it; only the snow-covered outlines of Dale remain visible, and the snow has started to pile upon the banister. With a small sigh Bilbo slips his fingers from his sleeves and tugs Thorin’s cloak closed before his chest. It’s cozy; far warmer than the one he has, and the fur tickles his cheeks.

He must look ridiculous, he thinks, well aware of how the coat’s hem drags on the floor behind him. A hobbit wearing the King’s coat.

But it’s very warm.

* * *

Time passes and severe snowstorms come down from the north. Erebor shores up, closes its gates, and across the plain the men in Dale do the same. While the storms last nobody ventures out; and Bilbo learns that sometimes these storms last a fortnight or more.

“Do you not have storms like this in the Shire?” Gloin asks him, as they’re finishing another set of calculations for the day. The pile they’re working on hasn’t exactly shrunken; but at least the complete stop of trade means the latest accounts are all up to date and the accountants working in the office under Oin get to go home a little early.

Bilbo shakes his head, gnawing on the end of his quill. “Not at all,” he replies, an old memory rising in his mind. “We had a terrible winter years ago. But even then there were no storms like this.”

Gloin notices the shadow passing over his face. “What happened?” Fabric rustles as the dwarf shifts his weight, leaning over his own desk.

Bilbo shudders despite the warm fire burning in the office’s fireplace. “The river froze and wolves crossed into the Shire. You saw the place; it didn’t go well for us.” He tries to smile; after all it’s ancient history and he’s seen battle since. But there’s an old horror sunken deep into his bones that he can’t shake.

“I’m sorry,” Gloin replies without judgement. Then he adds. “That may be one of the good things about these terrible storms: even the beasts don’t travel.”

Bilbo, who dared to try and look outside two days ago, finds he has to agree. The storm’s howling had been audible long before the gate had been in view. Several guards had tried to turn him back, warning him of frostbite and worse, though eventually one had agreed to open one of the windows set into the gate for Bilbo. The cold that had crawled through the opening had frozen his eyelashes and curls; the world outside white nothingness.

“I’m rather glad I’m welcome to stay here,” Bilbo says toward Gloin belatedly. “I wouldn’t want to be on the road in that storm, not even with a wizard.”  Bilbo turns back to his numbers, intent on finishing his calculations and misses Gloin’s brow furrowing.

“You are more than welcome to stay,” the dwarf insists gravely, and Bilbo smiles to himself. Back when they’d first entered Erebor, before the Arkenstone, before the goldsickness, Kili had dreamt out loud and painted a future where Bilbo lived in Erebor among them. It had been a beautiful dream, and for a short moment it had lingered within reach.

Then things had happened. And for all that the rift has been mended, Bilbo knows he will have to leave eventually. Erebor is a kingdom of dwarves and he is a hobbit.

“I’m happy to be a guest,” he replies more cheerfully, and Gloin falls silent.

* * *

Three days later, Bilbo finds the King under the Mountain approaching his work station. The dwarves and clerks in the office all bow deeply; Bilbo, flustered, attempts to do the same without smacking his head against his work table and overturning the inkwell in his hand. He still leaves a large splotch of blue ink on the parchment, while Thorin greets Gloin and a few others.

“I had hoped to borrow Master Baggins for the evening?” Thorin says, casting a smile toward Bilbo.

Gloin, being the direct dwarf he is, just turns to Bilbo. “The King wants you. Do you feel like humoring him?” A few dwarves nearby chuckle heartily. Gloin’s staff is well-used to the brusque familiarity of their boss.

Bilbo feels the blood rush to his cheeks. It’s no secret in Erebor that he and Thorin are friends; but he’s taken care to keep it all subtle. Erebor’s public order is a new, fragile thing, and they don’t need strangers undermining their king’s authority.

“Of course,” Bilbo hastens to reply, putting aside his quill and giving a last look at the parchment. It will keep until tomorrow; especially since the ink blot ruined the last line anyway.

“Thank you,” Thorin says with another affectionate smile that makes Bilbo’s heart beat faster. He’d think himself heartsick if he didn’t know exactly what caused his pulse to spike and his palms to sweat; though knowing the cause don’t make it any less dizzying.

He falls into step next to Thorin and they leave the accounting hall. “What do you need?” he inquires as they make their way into the cool corridors. Chatter echoes from above, and Bilbo spots dwarves hurrying to and fro in the distance. 

Thorin’s smile widens. “Come with me,” he says cryptically, and turns left to climb a staircase.

With a shrug to himself, Bilbo follows him. They soon reach the familiar gates of Erebor’s palace where the guards bow to Thorin. Fewer dwarves move in these halls and neither time nor Smaug caused harm to the intricate stonework decorating the walls. Bilbo thinks a year would not be enough to discover all the wonders and details carved here, as every time he passes these corridors he discovers something new.

Finally they turn into the corridor which Bilbo knows houses Thorin’s, Fili’s and Kili’s respective apartments, and his curiosity rises. Maybe Thorin discovered some old heirloom and chose to share it with Bilbo? Though why would he choose Bilbo over his kin? Maybe it’s something Thorin thinks Bilbo might appreciate?

“It’s long been custom of my kin,” Thorin says, as he walks past the closed doors of his own chambers, “To keep rooms for family not living in the mountain. Erebor is home to all of my clan, so all of us need to have a home here. Home to dwarves is more than a place to live; home it the place where you are always welcome to live if you chose to.”

Bilbo nods, a little confused. Thorin stops his feet in front of another door; just across the hallway from the King’s own suit. The door is new, Bilbo realizes, the metal carvings atop the wood and inlaid details are old, but have been repaired, and the lock shines as if it had been recently polished.

“Now, I did hear you do consider yourself a mere guest here,” Thorin continues, and pulls a flat box from the inside pocket of his cloak. He takes a deep breath. “I would like to change that.”

Bilbo’s heart skips a beat. He stares at Thorin wide-eyed. “What?”

Thorin’s smile widens, though there is a melancholic twist to his features. “You, Bilbo Baggins, are not a guest in Erebor. You have every right of making Erebor your home if you chose so.” He presses his lips together and holds out the box. “I know you have your Shire home, but let me give you a home here as well.”

The box gleams under the golden light of the corridor’s oil lamps. For a moment Bilbo is frozen; incredulous, confused, scarcely daring to believe his ears. But the box does not vanish, Thorin’s smile does not change, and tentative warmth spreads in his chest.

“Thorin,” Bilbo mumbles, hoarsely. Dizzily.

In return Thorin’s smile gains a sad edge. “What I can do for you, I will,” he says, and those clear blue eyes look at Bilbo with unveiled affection. “What you have done for my kin and for me is not something that can ever be repaid. You have, and always will have, a place in Erebor, and I’m only sorry I did not see to it earlier.”

It’s beautiful and painful, and Bilbo’s heart soars with joy and pain at the same time. He loves this foolish dwarf, this beautiful, wonderful idiot, and if it were another Bilbo would say the words that burn in his mind. But Thorin is King under the Mountain, and Bilbo a hobbit from the Shire.

So he swallows and squeezes his eyes shut in the brightest smile he can manage. “Thank you, Thorin. Thank you so much! This wasn’t necessary, my chambers are quite -”

“Why don’t you take a look first,” Thorin gently interrupts him. Bilbo’s mouth snaps shut, as a new idea rises in his mind. Thorin wouldn’t -

It’s already beyond all imagination that the dwarves would allow Bilbo rooms right next to their King. Bilbo will gladly take them, whether they are a repurposed linen closet or some dusty storage space. There is simply no reason to choose anything special.

Belatedly Bilbo reaches out to take the box from Thorin. Opens it with ever so quietly shaking hands, aware of Thorin’s watchful gaze. The polished metal of a silver key gleams within and his fingers feel stiff and clumsy as he picks it up. Bilbo takes a deep breath, unlocks the door.

It swings open smoothly, the freshly oiled hinges needing but a soft push. Warm air enfolds Bilbo and he gazes into a comfortable sitting room, lit by oil lamps and a merrily dancing fire in the fireplace. Two plush armchairs stand next to it; a low table between them, and Bilbo forgets to breathe.

The setup is the same as his reading corner in Bag End. There is even a bookshelf on the wall; and a thick carpet covering the polished tiles before the fireplace.

Disbelief wars with sheer joy in his chest. All of this - and it’s just for him, just to make one small hobbit a little more comfortable in this dwarven kingdom. Something wet burns in his eyes and he steps inside. The room isn’t vast the way many of Erebor’s reception rooms are, but perhaps the size of his living room back in Bag End. Tapestries cover the wall’s bare stone, their golden threads shining in the light

The room is warm. Welcoming, and Bilbo cannot fathom it. His fingers tighten their grip on the key, the cold metal real against his skin even as the world around him appears to have become a dream.

“Do you like it?” Thorin asks quietly from behind Bilbo. He can sense the warmth of Thorin’s body behind his back, and it reminds him that this all is undeniably, beautifully real. 

Bilbo swallows down the knot in his throat. “I love it,” he says hoarsely. “I absolutely love it.” His voice hitches. There’s no stopping this now. So he turns on his heel and puts his head against Thorin’s chest. At least this way Thorin won’t see him crying. “But, Thorin, this… it’s ... “

A large, warm hand carefully settles on his shoulder. “I had hoped you would like it,” Thorin says softly. “I know it isn’t much, because I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention to the details of your home when I was there. We tried our best to recreate what we could remember, though the details may not have come out quite right. Also, there are fewer rooms, but Bifur said we could take out some walls and connect -”

“Thorin!” Bilbo interrupts him sharply. One hand comes up to clutch the lapels of Thorin’s coat. He shouldn’t be this familiar and intimate with the King, a faint voice in the back of his mind that distinctly sounds like his father, reprimands him.

“Thorin, I love it the way it is, really,” Bilbo manages, and finally manages to keep his eyes open. He rubs at his eyes with his other sleeve, hoping to hide the worst, but it’s probably impossible. “You...” He shakes his head. “I can’t quite believe you did all of this for me.”

Especially since he is supposed to leave once spring arrives.

Thorin doesn’t remove his hand. Rather, his smile grows. “It was no hardship,” he assures. “We all want to make you feel at home here. After all, you are one of us.”

Bilbo huffs; his face hot. “Thorin, this is beyond, far beyond anything anyone’s ever done for me.” He shakes his head, looks to the side, where a coat rack stands awaiting usage. There are two doors beyond, and Bilbo doesn’t doubt the rooms behind these won’t lack in comfort either. “How did you even manage this?”

He’s a little surprised when instead of answering Thorin shifts his weight and begins to steer Bilbo backward, toward the armchairs. The door swings shut behind him, and Bilbo uses that moment to gather himself. He still can’t quite believe this is really happening.

“To be quite honest, Kili had the idea a while back already,” Thorin says as he settles in one of the armchairs. Bilbo follows; and the chair is just the right mixture between soft and sturdy. “Back when you announced you wouldn’t depart with Gandalf, he mentioned that your guest quarters weren’t the most welcoming.”

“They’re not so bad,” Bilbo protests quietly. They are small, certainly, and far less grand than what Erebor’s dwarves are used to. But for Bilbo who only returns there to sleep, they are fine, no matter what Kili may have claimed.

Thorin grins a little. “I think I’m with Kili on this one,” he says. In the light of the fire his face looks warmer, and the lines around his eyes less harsh. “But in any case, whether for now, or whether for any other time, you deserve to have a true home here. So when I heard from Gloin…” Thorin shrugs. “With the storm outside, the craftsman had ample time to finish this.”

Bilbo takes a shuddering breath. Thorin says it all as if it was a simple matter, as if it didn’t make Bilbo’s heart hope for foolish things.

“You spoil me, Thorin,” he says instead, looking down on his reddened toes. “Really, this is too much.”

Thorin’s boots line up with his own feet, Bilbo observes. They’re beautifully crafted; smooth leather with silver buckles and fur-lined. Erebor’s handicraft sector has been flourishing recently; the hastily made trade agreements at the end of autumn now bearing fruit.

“But do you like it?” Thorin queries.

Bilbo looks up and finds Thorin’s eyes on himself. “I love it,” he says, honestly. I love you, he thinks. He’d have loved it had it been a closet with a cot.

“Then that is all I had wished for,” Thorin answers fondly.

* * *

Bilbo moves into his new rooms swiftly. It’s not as if he has many possessions to carry, though the dwarves appear intend on helping him furnish his new home. Ori provides sketches, Dori new clothes, and Balin interesting books from the library. Bombur stops by with a selection of teas, and Bofur makes half-serious jokes about installing wood paneling.

“We can probably get wood from Mirkwood,” Bofur contemplates out loud while Bilbo pours tea. “Might not be very good quality, though. Perhaps Dain has some connections to import wood from the east, if not we can always trade south once the lake becomes unfrozen.”

Bilbo adds a generous dollop of alcohol - Bofur’s visiting gift - to the tea and stirs it. “That’s an idea, though I think I will probably be leaving around that time.”

Bofur turns away from the wall he has been studying with a grin. “Well, we can have it ready for your return, then.” He makes his way over to the armchairs, stretches and then drops himself down.

Bilbo feels his own smile grow wistful. Returning to Erebor - if it was that easy.

Bofur appears to read his mind. “Or even if you decide not to return,” he says as he reaches for his tea. “These rooms are yours, they should look just how you want them to, whether you are here or not. But,” he waggles an eyebrow. “I think we all would be very sad if you didn’t return.”

He takes a sip of his tea, while Bilbo sits on his chair, frozen. It all sounds so simple, he thinks. But there’s his past betrayal that will make his position in Erebor precarious, there’s the fact that he’s a hobbit.

There’s the fact that he’s in love with Thorin.

“Oh, this is beautiful,” Bofur declares, sliding back against the backrest. “You know how to mix a good tea, Bilbo. Really, you can’t leave, you know.”

* * *

The snow-covered plain before Erebor gleams in the early morning light. Fresh snowfall has given white hats to the buildings of Dale and frost glitters on the rocks of Erebor. Bilbo's breath fogs in the air as he tilts his head back to enjoy the sun. The storms have passed, allowing for a rare day of clear winter skies.

On the ram next to him Thorin chuckles. “I admit it's good to get away from the mountain for once,” he says. “Just don't let anybody know I said this.” He looks at ease, Bilbo thinks, without the crown and the heavy royal cloak.

“Your secret is safe with me, and I do think the guards were appropriately recompensed for their silence in this matter,” Bilbo replies with a grin. They are travelling incognito today, just the two of them, much to Dwalin’s despair. Erebor’s head of the guard had had to agree, however, that Dale constitutes a safe destination, and that Thorin and Bilbo are capable of looking after themselves.

“You can always practice saying ‘hail King Fili’,” Thorin had suggested when they’d climbed onto the rams. Bilbo had chuckled into the high collar of his white and green cloak, and Dwalin had stared at Thorin utterly incredulous for a heartbeat.

Then, with a dead serious expression, he’d flatly returned. “You know, I like the sound of that.”

“Dwalin might scare them,” Thorin says to Bilbo while his ram huffs as if makes its way through the deep snow. The road to Dale has been completely covered; but they can already see the city gates open at the end of it, and sounds drift over. 

“I guess if he ends up leading a mutiny, you will have to come with me to the Shire,” Bilbo returns glibly. “You offered me a home in Erebor, I suppose I will find you one in the Shire. However, I’m afraid we don’t really have any mountains there.”

Thorin laughs and Bilbo thinks he should laugh more often.

They reach the city gate and convince the two guards there that they are harmless visitors from Erebor. The lack of weapons on them helps their cause, so they are allowed to pass. Just beyond the gate they find a place for their rams - the inn’s proprietor looks a little surprised to see travelers, but the glint of gold persuades him. With one last look at their rams happily munching dried hay, Bilbo and Thorin mingle into the morning crowd.

The sun has brought renewed life to Dale. After a fortnight of unceasing snowfall and bitter winds, men, women and children now use the day to head outside: to sweep the streets, to make repairs, or to visit Dale’s central market at the top of the hill before the old city hall. Delicious smells waft through the streets, and Bilbo already envisions what they may find. Hot cider, baked goods, maybe some fresh cuts of meat - his stomach stirs.

Childish laughter mixes with chatter and the general sounds of life; Bilbo spies various snowmen lining the roadside as they attempt to navigate the labyrinth of Dale on their own. The repairs, Bilbo thinks, have changed the layout of the place again; though perhaps he never got a good grip on it. They follow a main road that gently leads upward, but they soon notice more people using narrower, steeper alleys to ascend. With the buildings at least three stories high they can’t really see where their target lies or what the best way to get there is.

“Watch out!”

From the corner of his eye Bilbo catches something barreling toward them at high speed; the next moment Thorin has pushed the two of them into a snowbank. Behind them two children race past on a makeshift sledge, cheering loudly, while Bilbo has snow up his nose, and Thorin’s weight is pushing him further into the cold powder.

“Bilbo, are you alright?” Thorin asks, as he climbs to his feet and warily gazes uphill.

Bilbo spits out a mouthful of snow.  “I think so.” He dusts of the snow from his cloak, thankful for its thick fabric. “Maybe we should pick another road.” He accepts Thorin’s hand and the dwarf pulls him to his feet.

Thorin, looking him up and down for any injury, nods sagely. “It wouldn’t do for us to be done in by children on sledges.” There is a playful gleam to his eye.

Bilbo snorts, surprised. “No, I don’t think that would be very dignified.” After having survived goblins, orcs, and a dragon, death by sledging accident appears rather ironic.

They’ve just turned the corner when one of the children who nearly ran them over comes running toward them. “I’m so sorry!” a red-cheeked girl who can’t be much older than ten exclaims. “We didn’t mean to run you over! Are you alright? We didn’t hit you, did we?” An even younger boy shyly looks past her, dragging their sledge by a towing rope behind him.

Their sledge, Bilbo notices, has been made from what was probably an orc shield. He finds his eyebrows rise, but then also thinks it’s a very good use for bad metal.

“Everything’s quite fine,” Thorin assures her with a kind smile. “And nothing happened, so don’t worry about it.”

Just before the children are about to run off Bilbo leans forward. “Could you maybe tell us how to get to the market?”

The girl nods vigorously, sending dark braids flying. “Just follow me. Everybody’s using the stair road, because it’s less slippery.” Without waiting, she turns on her heel and starts marching, the younger boy - probably a sibling following behind. He does turn to look over his shoulder frequently, though, to the point that he keeps stumbling over his own feet.

“Are you dwarves?” he asks, when their young guide finds them the stair road - as the name says, it’s a narrow lane ascending mostly through long steps. She’s about to pick up the sledge herself, but Thorin has already lifted it like it weighs nothing.

“Yes,” Thorin confirms without missing a beat. “Dwarves from Erebor.”

The boy’s eyes widen. “Dad says dwarves build the best sledges,” he declares earnestly. “But I’ve never seen a dwarven sledge.”

“It’s been awhile since I’ve seen one, too,” Thorin says, and Bilbo finds himself confused and amused by the conversation. It’s unlike Thorin to be this open toward strangers, to share these private things. Yet again, Bilbo adores this side, loves how it makes Thorin look more at ease with the world and himself.

“Who made the one you have?” Thorin asks as they make their way up, past freshly painted doorways. This part of the town has been well-repaired; in fact Bilbo spies only few traces of the battle. New boards protect the windows; the stonework has been refurbished, and the colors are bright in the sunlight.

“Mom did,” the boy replies. “She’s a smith. Probably not as good as a dwarf, though…”

Thorin makes a show of studying the sledge. “Oh, I think she must be very talented,” he says. “Working with these materials takes not only skill but also creativity. And she has both.” Bilbo finds his lips quirking in agreement; because truly: who looks at an orc shield and thinks ‘this could make a great sledge’?

They reach a small crossroad, where the girl looks over her shoulder. “This is where we turn off to get to the sledging road. Say, do you want to ride as well?”

Thorin and Bilbo exchange a glance. They are both far older than their young companion obviously assumes. One of them is King under the Mountain and expected to comport himself with dignity.

However, they are here incognito, and Bilbo has to admit a certain Tookish excitement at the notion. It’s been decades since he last went sledging. Thorin apparently has picked up on it. With a faint grin on his lips he asks: “Who are we to decline such a generous offer?”

The girl’s face lights up. “This street is the best. The one behind the market is steeper, that’s true, but this one goes on for longer. You can go all the way down to the south gate if you make the right turns. Jenn said there was a good slope outside of the gate, but my parents told me not to go.”

It is amazing, Bilbo thinks to himself as they follow her toward the starting point where more children wait, how resilient these children are. The battle hasn’t been but a few months ago, but here they are, playing as if these streets hadn’t been red with blood then. The orcish shields that are no longer needed have been repurposed into sledges - wood is scarce, and the cheap metal of orcish weapons useless. Except, it isn’t.

“You can steer by shifting your weight,” their local expert explains. “There’s also the rope, but Umo says that doesn’t really work. He says dwarves can steer it by string…” She tilts her head, eyeing Thorin and Bilbo questioningly.

Thorin gives her another smile. “Dwarves can engineer that, yes,” he agrees. “But you’re right; this one can only be steered by shifting your weight.” Looking at him, Bilbo wonders if Dale will soon get a delivery of steerable sledges.

“Well, Bilbo,” Thorin says, as he sits down on the back of the makeshift sledge, tugging his red coat into place and spreads his legs. “Come over.” He pats the space between his legs with a cheeky grin.

Bilbo flushes.

He shuffles over and awkwardly shifts into place between Thorin’s legs. Before him the snow-covered street gleams in the midday sun. The stone houses lining it now seem menacing and sturdy, rather than the crumbling structures Bilbo usually perceives them as.

Maybe this isn’t such a good idea? From here the slope does look steeper, and the street isn’t very wide, meaning they don’t exactly have much margin for error. Somehow he doesn’t remember sledging feeling as dangerous or as complicated as a child.

“Don’t worry,” the young girl says, reading his hesitation. “It’s fun.”

Bilbo hopes it will be. Thorin leans forward, and reaches around Bilbo’s shoulders to grasp the towing rope of the sledge. His chest presses against Bilbo’s back.

“Ready?” Thorin asks, his warm breath tickling Bilbo’s ear. He gulps. He has faced Azog and Smaug, he reminds himself. A sledge ride should not scare him.

Then Thorin pushes them off, and Bilbo can’t quite stop himself from gasping.

The shield-turned-sledge picks up speed in the blink of an eye; ice-cold wind blasts past Bilbo’s face, burning, tearing at his hair. Faster and faster they go, the world blurs, fragmentizes: gleaming snow, a wall with cracking paint, the blue sky, a doorway, a half-opened window, a shouting passerby, and he can’t quite make sense of anything. His heart races; his fingers clench in the fabric of Thorin’s trousers. Thorin’s warm chest against his back remains the only thing real in this whirlwind of impressions, and next to his ear he can Thorin laugh quietly in exhilaration. 

For a moment it’s not so bad. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Thorin laugh like this. Among this madness of gleaming snow and menacing stone, Thorin’s laugh sounds carefree. Happy.

Then their shield-turned-sledge hits and uneven patch of ground and they get catapulted into the air. Bilbo will deny it later, but he screams, squeezing his eyes shut.

It’s terrifying.

Exhilarating.

Their sledge slams back onto the ground and the race continues. At breakneck speed they barrel the slope of the street downward; the houses whizz by, and Thorin shifts his weight expertly, keeping their ride from any unfortunate end. They fly past intersections, scare a flock of crows, until eventually the slope decreases and their sledge starts to slow.

The narrow street opens up onto a large square, and once Bilbo’s head stops spinning he recognizes Dale’s south gate. Men and women, often in small groups, pass the gate heading for the stairs outside, rendering Bilbo puzzled. The path from there leads down to the Long Lake; it’s where Dale’s fishers set out during the warmer seasons. But the lake has been frozen for months.

Thorin shifting behind his back draws Bilbo from his contemplations. The arms around him loosen, allowing Bilbo to move.

“I haven’t done this in a very long time,” Thorin declares contently. Bilbo feels himself grin in turn. When he looks over his shoulder (not at all because he’s stalling as he doubts his legs will carry him), Thorin truly beams. He does look rather like Kili, like this.

“Now I know where Kili got his taste for excitement from,” Bilbo mutters, deciding he can use Thorin’s knee as a crutch to push himself up. He’s just sat squeezed between his legs; they’ve moved past propriety a while ago.

Thorin snorts. Then, watching Bilbo stagger to his feet, his mien turns gentler. “Are you alright, though?”

Bilbo who thinks he prefers Thorin’s unbridled enthusiasm, waves the concern off. “Quite fine. Hills in the Shire just aren’t quite so steep.” Or lined by the possibility of abrupt, painful endings to the ride.

Chuckling at that Thorin follows Bilbo to his feet, dusting off the snow sticking to his trousers and coat and casts a glance around. Standing they can see the frozen surface of the lake below and the tiny figures gliding across it. Some larger constructions also move on the ice, though Bilbo can’t quite make out what they are.

At that moment another sledge arrives from uphill, carrying three children who laugh and shout and cheer, though seem slightly disappointed that their ride is over. The girl who first talked Thorin and Bilbo into the madness, turns wide eyes onto them.

“Did you like it?” she exclaims, stumbling over to leave her companions in the snow.

“We did,” Thorin confirms, laughing, and then reaches into his pocket to pull out a handful of coins. “Thank you for letting us borrow your sledge.” Her eyes widen as Thorin presses the coins into her hands; Bilbo can spy the gleam of polished gold from his vantage point near Thorin.

“Oh, this,” she begins. Thorin winks at her. “Get something nice for yourself and your friends.”

With a spark in her eyes, she runs off. Bilbo turns to Thorin. “That was enough for them to buy probably all the sweet nuts on the market,” he mutters, though he can’t say he actually disapproves. Only, he would have liked to buy some for himself. 

Thorin gives him a small grin. “Which is why I told her to share.” His gaze wanders back toward the lake. “Shall we have a look? I think they might be ice sailing.”

“I suppose the market will keep,” Bilbo agrees magnanimously, burying his gloved hands in his coat pockets. He has never heard of ice sailing, and it makes him curious. Likely, he thinks, it’s the larger constructions gliding across the ice below - squinting he can make out sails, and in a way the look like very small boats.

The east is a curious place indeed.

* * *

It takes them less than ten minutes to reach the bottom of the path. A flat stretch of land forms a natural shore that now is swarmed with people. Some tie various objects to the soles of their shoes - Bilbo spies repurposed blades, leather, and polished wood; others stagger onto the ice in their everyday shoes. Laughter fills the air, as people windmill and sway as if drunk; further out on the lake a few people glide confidently across the surface, and Bilbo exhales quietly.

Seeing this peaceful, playful moment undoes so much of the pain and hardship the east has suffered. He knows that problems will linger, that their troubles will not dissolve - but this day of respite, of sunshine and enjoyment, makes his own heart feel lighter.

“Bilbo,” Thorin’s voice pulls him from his thoughts and he finds Thorin waving from the western edge of the shore. Behind a tall group of boulders he now spies the strange structures. As he approaches he discovers that they appear like a strange cross between small sailboats and sledges: three skates carry an oblong narrow cradle-like seat, just big enough for two persons to sit behind each other. At the front a mast emerges; with the sail’s fabric tied tightly to it.

“... had to replace the sails,” an elderly man is saying to Thorin who nods attentively. “Obviously the fabric we have now isn’t as good as what was used back in the day, but if we’re lucky you folks in Erebor will find the original instructions, and then we can get these back into shape next year.”

With pursed lips Bilbo looks closer at the iceboats. No rust discolors the metal, but he can now see that some parts are no longer quite straight, and what color they once bore has long since faded.

“I’m certain we will,” Thorin says to the man. “It used to be a very popular sport.”

The man laughs. “So I was told. Well, I didn’t expect to actually see it, but I won’t complain.” With that he turns on his heel and climbs onto a small step ladder onto the ice. Walks past various iceboats. “Seeing as you look like you know what you’re doing, I’m giving you our fastest boat. Keep in mind, the sail’s fabric probably isn’t up to the loads you’re used to.”

“I used to ice sail,” Thorin tells Bilbo as the hobbit stands next to him and they watch how the man unfolds the sail on the iceboat, and then begins to tie it into place. “Back before Smaug came. I hope you don’t mind, I’d like to give it a try. If you want to, feel free to head back to the market and we’ll meet there.”

Bilbo glances out onto the lake with trepidation. The few boats out in the distance seem to fly across the ice at harrying speeds. Frightening, but elegant.

“Isn’t there space for two on these things?” he asks, trying his best to sound nonchalant.

Thorin turns to him with surprise. “You want to try it?”

No self-respecting hobbit would ever engage in such a frightening sport, Bilbo thinks. But no self-respecting hobbit would have left the Shire or fallen in love with a dwarf either. So he grins up at Thorin. “It looks exciting.”

Also as the sledge ride didn’t kill them, Bilbo supposes they will be fine. At least out on the ice there are no stonewalls to collide with.

* * *

In the cradle of the iceboat Bilbo does not actually sit between Thorin’s legs - the seating resembles that of a rowboat, except the sides come up to Bilbo’s shoulders. Thorin behind him sits higher; and right now tugs various ropes into place.

“The front seat used to be passenger seat,” Thorin explains. “Though depending on the model, sometimes you got steering there, too. Usually, though, you steer the boat through the sails, which is the job of the person in the backseat. There’s also a separate braking system at the back, but using that was considered bad form.”

He tugs at a line and the sail partially unfurls. The wind picks it up; the fabric billows and their boat gently moves. Bilbo’s heart jumps - the sensation is different from the sledge’s rapid start. They glide forward; Thorin making sure not to collide with any of the many ice skaters passing by.

“This used to be a popular sport?” Bilbo queries, trying to glance over his shoulder, though he can’t turn far enough to actually see Thorin.

“Very,” Thorin reveals, attention fixed the guidelines. “Both for sport and practical reasons. It made crossing the lake in winter fast and simple.”

Looking out to where other iceboats zip across the surface silently and swiftly, Bilbo thinks he understands it. “Lean a bit to your left,” Thorin suggests, and when Bilbo follows, Thorin turns them into the wind. They pick up speed, making Bilbo’s curls flutter, and his breath hitch.

“There also used to be races and other ice sailing events in winter,” Thorin continues. “The people of Dale and even the Mirkwood elves used to participate, though in the later years it was only city folk.”

A sharp wind pulls on Bilbo’s hair, and he isn’t sure whether the sensation of nearly flying across the ice or Thorin’s intimate tone is making him feel light-headed. “Did you use to participate?” he asks, having to yell over the rushing wind.

Thorin’s grin widens. “I did,” he confirms. “Not in the races, or any of the real competitions, but we used to do some show stuff. I used to be very good; I could have probably won in the competition, too.”

Bilbo feels inclined to believe it. Already they’re moving faster than anything bar the eagles’ flight he has ever known, and so smoothly they might not be touching the ground at all. There’s something breath-taking to the world laid out before them; the glittering ice underneath a cloudless blue sky. It’s so cold his cheeks hurt, and his fingers begin to feel numb underneath his thick gloves, but it’s also one of the most beautiful vistas he’s ever seen.

Then Thorin leans forward. “Do sit back and hold on,” he instructs Bilbo with a playful note. “Let me show you some real sailing.”

Bilbo would like to mention that he’s already quite happy with what he’s seen. But the Tookish side of him cheers in elation and makes him shift in his seat so he’s leaning back, clutching the sides of the boat.

Thorin climbs to his feet, tightens his grip on the guidelines. And then allows the sail to fully unfurl.

If the moment the wind first picked up their ice boat and started moving them made Bilbo’s breath hitch, this moment is like being punched in the back and catapulted forward by an explosion. The sail snaps taut, the mast groans - but dwarvish engineering has been made for these conditions - and they shoot forward. The world flies by; the burn in his eyes so intense Bilbo has to squint and look sideways - where in far the distance the tree line of Mirkwood races past.

The eagles flew slower than this, Bilbo thinks. Then Thorin guides their iceboat into a curve and Bilbo stops thinking, clutching the cold metal of his seat like a lifeline. Behind him Thorin expertly shifts his weight to counterbalance and their course changes so they now glide parallel to the Dale shore.

They are a good distance away; the ice skaters but small figures moving in the distance. Dale’s snow-covered rooftops gleam in the sunlight, and steam rises from chimneys. Erebor towers beyond, tall and solemn - and Thorin changes directions again, making Bilbo gasp.

For a moment the iceboat’s left runner leaves the ice, and Bilbo fears the worst, but Thorin leans to the side so that for an impossibly long moment they glide in this strangely precarious position - then Thorin makes the boat spin, and Bilbo is about to yell at him (once he regains his bearings). However, when his mind clears they are drifting back toward Dale, much slower now, the sail turned slightly against the wind.

With a soft thud Thorin sits back down on the metal behind Bilbo, and with practiced movements ties the sail into place. Bilbo glares at him over his shoulder, though he can’t quite keep his lips from twitching.

“Next time give me a warning,” he mutters, shaking his head to make his windswept curls settle back into place.

Thorin smiles, looking windswept and happy. “Certainly. Next time we can take some provisions and head out further, too.”

Bilbo wants to groan, but he can’t deny feeling happy at the prospect. “Next time, you show me how to sail.”

Thorin’s eyes light up. “That would be my pleasure.”

* * *

They arrive back at the shore quickly, and from there make their way back up toward town. Noon has since passed and the sun begun its descend. Bilbo’s stomach also has started noticing the missing mealtime, though a pleasant sense of fatigue dulls the sensation. It’s been awhile since he last spent a day engaged in pointless, joyful endeavors like this; he’s quite forgotten the sense of levity. The lit windows lining Dale’s steep streets now appear all the warmer and the lengthening shadows not quite as cold.

Next to him Thorin hasn’t stopped smiling since they left the ice either.

There’s mulled wine, and roasted nuts, sugar-glazed apples, spiced ciders, and grilled sausages sold on various market stalls. The last-minute investments Dale and Erebor put into accumulating food stocks have paid off, Bilbo thinks. While the men and women milling between the stalls are lean, there is no haggard thinness there, and people seem cheerful.

It’s astonishing how far they have all come since the battle, Bilbo thinks, sipping his mulled wine. The mixture is certainly different from what they have in the Shire, stronger and spicier - he rather likes it. Next to him Thorin carefully blows on his own mug; the low table before them host to a small pile of cleared plates.

“No longer hungry?” Thorin inquires over his steaming beverage.

Bilbo tilts his head. “You know,” he says. “I wouldn’t mind some glazed-apples or roasted nuts for the way home.”

Thorin shakes his head, reaching into his pocket and checking for their remaining coin. The sky overhead turns bright orange as the sun slowly disappears into the west; bathing Dale into golden light. It makes the faded paint look less dull and hides the crumbling structures. For a moment - or rather for this day, Bilbo thinks - Dale looks like a thriving, peaceful town.

But even if for now that image lingers just for a day, it could be a sign of things to come.

“I suppose we ought to start our way back soon,” Thorin says, and empties his mug with one long swig. “Dwalin threatened to send out search parties if we weren’t back in time.”

Bilbo snorts softly. “He would.” He puts his mug down, too, and looks a little wistfully at the colorful stalls where more and more people gather, drinking and eating together. He wouldn’t mind staying a little longer, just to soak up the atmosphere. But while it’s not far to Erebor, he knows the temperatures will drop soon, and he’d rather complete this day without netting a cold.

So he turns with shrug, smiles at Thorin and says “let’s go.”

With their bodies still warm from good food and mulled wine they begin their journey home. The sky overhead glows in brilliant shades of pink and red, and the first stars rise to the east. Bilbo contently sighs to himself as their rams trot side by side, retracing their steps from earlier this morning. But to him it feels as if months have passed, as if the world today was another one.

“Thank you for today, Thorin,” Bilbo offers quietly as they approach the shadow of the mountain. “I really enjoyed it.”

Thorin looks over to him. “Don’t thank me,” he replies. “I had fun, too.”

“We should really go ice sailing again,” Bilbo says, cheeks warm and reddened.

Thorin smiles, his entire posture relaxed and at ease in the saddle. “Did you enjoy it?” he asks.

“Well,” Bilbo shrugs, gazing up at the approaching gate. “I suppose there is a certain thrill to it.” The braziers have been lit, casting a welcoming light toward the returning travelers.

“You’re truly quite full of surprises,” Thorin agrees. “But certainly, once the next chance comes we shall set out again.”

Bilbo’s heart warms at the promise. “I would enjoy that,” he says, and after a moment feels compelled to add. “Though I know you are busy. So I’d rather not keep you from any important business or…”

Thorin turns to face him, slowing his ram’s step. “It is the middle of winter,” he says. “Except from the occasional raven or visitor from Dale, there is little important business to be conducted. Or at least none that won’t keep until the next storm rolls in.” He shrugs.

Bilbo tilts his head. “In that case…”

A shout goes up from within Erebor. They have been spotted, and soon Dwalin will know and likely yell at them for returning past sunset.

“Anything, Bilbo, anything,” Thorin promises with urgency. There’s a light to his eyes that makes something in Bilbo’s chest tremble. “I told you before, and I mean it, what I can do for you, I will do.”

Bilbo tightens his hold on the reigns. Don’t, he tells his foolish heart; don’t hope for what can’t be. This is already so much more than he could ever have dreamed of. “You don’t owe me a thing, Thorin,” Bilbo says quietly. “Honestly, you needn’t do this.”

“But I want to do this,” Thorin replies.

Blood rises to Bilbo’s cheeks. He loves this dwarf, loves his noble bearing, his childish joy, loves him down to those grey hairs that the setting sun now dyes gold.

Thorin looks wistfully to the west. “And since you don’t intend to stay, I find I must hurry.” He glances at Bilbo again. “You, Bilbo Baggins, are not an easy hobbit to make happy.” There is a small smile on his lips, betraying a lighter sentiment.

Bilbo sputters as the gate swings open. “I, excuse me! I don’t require much! I’m a simple hobbit of simple taste! I -” But even though he protests his heart is shaking, wondering what Thorin’s words meant. Does the King under the Mountain truly wish for Bilbo to stay at his side?

Is it perhaps more than fondness Thorin feels for him?

Thorin chuckles as their rams trot into Erebor’s large entrance hall where various guards approach them. Bilbo sighs, relieved to be out of the cold, for his toes have grown numb. Still, he can’t help but wonder.

The rooms in the royal wing, the cloak. All the time they spend together despite their busy schedules; the familiarity between them. It’s beautiful, and maybe Bilbo can allow himself to dream. Just until spring comes.

* * *

After the brief respite, new clouds move in from the north. Bilbo returns to his work, elated from the excursion to the point that he can’t stop himself from daydreaming about what a next time might encompass. He scolds himself for that, though in truth he is no longer certain about his initial assessment.

Perhaps Thorin returns his affections.

The way Thorin smiled at him, the way Thorin’s own eyes lit up when talking about what they want to do together. If it was anybody else, Bilbo would not have doubted it for a second. But this is the King under the Mountain.

And this is why once spring comes Bilbo must leave.

With a sigh he runs a hand through his curls. They’ve grown long; too long for his taste, though he’s hesitant to cut it off himself (once, a long time ago, he attempted it, and subsequently had to fake a cold for two weeks until a professional barber could redress the disaster). Dwarves, as they consider hair a very private affair, don’t have professional hairstylists. He’ll have to wait for an opportunity to head to Dale, then.

It does get annoying while he works. Strands tucked behind his ears don’t stay in place, and more than once he finds himself distracted from his calculations when a wayward curl falls into his line of sight. Gloin suggests he ought to braid it. Bilbo, whose experience with braiding comes from helping his nieces, attempts so one evening and the result makes him glad he’s alone in his rooms.

He’d rather not copy any dwarven braids without knowing their meanings, so another evening after finishing his calculations he makes his way to the library and finds Ori at the librarian’s desk, pouring over an ancient tome.

“Bilbo!” the young dwarf exclaims happily. “Good to see you! What can I do for you?”

Bilbo leans forward and lowers his voice. “Look, this may be offensive, so if it is, please just tell me so. But recently my hair’s been bothering me, and I was wondering whether you have some book on braids? Just something I could do with my hair until I can get it cut.”

Ori stares at him, wide-eyed, and with a brush of color in his cheeks. “Oh,” he says, shakily and Bilbo sighs at himself. Hair. Very private matter. “Well. Um.”

“It’s fine if you -” Bilbo begins, thinking he should have known better.

“No, look,” Ori begins. “It is, you know, very private. So books like this are usually kept within families. The ones we have in the library come from families who have passed, so they’d not really help you. I mean those books don’t explain the meanings of the various braids, and even if they do, it’s all in Khuzdul and …” He tilts his head. “You should just go and ask Thorin.”

Bilbo’s eyebrows rise. “Ask Thorin?” He’d rather not bother the King under the Mountain about his hair. Thorin has been busy lately, he knows that.

“Yes,” Ori beams. “He can help you.”

* * *

Bilbo is skeptical, though eventually he manages to catch Thorin one morning as they both head toward their respective offices. The corridor is empty, and the guards stand on the other side of the door, so Bilbo takes a heart and voices his question.

Thorin doesn’t seem thrown by the question. Rather, he nods, and asks Bilbo whether he is free tonight. Once Bilbo has confirmed that, Thorin promises he will stop by, leaving Bilbo confused.

Does Thorin intend to braid his hair for him? That would certainly…

His cheeks burn red when they part ways. Thorin knows braiding hair doesn’t mean the same thing to hobbits as it means for dwarves, Bilbo reminds himself.

Still, he can’t help the bubble of excitement in his stomach. It lingers during the madness of the day. At some point Gloin comes stomping in, cursing loudly about Thorin apparently cancelling appointments at short notice, and Gloin having to oversee several meetings now. Bilbo laughs quietly to himself; tells Gloin he is certain he can handle it.

“Just don’t kill anyone,” Bilbo says sweetly.

“Same to you,” Gloin returns over his shoulder from the doorway. “Consider yourself in charge of finances for the day!”

Neither Gloin nor Bilbo end up murdering anybody, though Bilbo has to admit it is close. By the time he can lock up the office and trudge back toward the palace, it’s late and he is exhausted.

Bilbo has just boiled water, when somebody knocks on the door.

“Come in,” he calls, and certainly Thorin’s familiar footsteps echo through the sitting room. Bilbo pours hot tea, adding a slice of dried lemon, while behind him Thorin sinks into one of the armchairs.

“Long day?” Bilbo asks, carrying the tea over. He sets it down and looks at Thorin, who has his head tilted back and his eyes closed. There are shadows underneath them again, and Thorin exhales quietly.

“As long as yours, I believe,” Thorin replies, opens his eyes and sits upright. “The tea smells wonderful, thank you.”

Bilbo stirs his own tea. “We can always do this another day,” he suggests, while Thorin takes a slow sip. “I’ve managed so far.”

Thorin sets the cup down and rolls his shoulders. “If that is your wish, certainly.” He reaches into his pockets and draws out a small leather pouch. “But I’m prepared.” A faint smile plays on his lips.

Bilbo’s cheeks warm up. “Fine.”

Following Thorin’s instructions he moves over, sitting on an ottoman between Thorin’s knees. He has, he thinks as his face heats further, spent quite a bit of time sitting between Thorin’s knees lately. And he’s certainly not complaining, but he knows it is owed to the exceptionality of circumstances. Once spring arrives - even if he stayed - formality would require more distance between them.

Thorin sets the pouch onto the low table and tugs out a small silver comb. Bilbo doesn’t miss the low inhale of breath just before callused fingers touch his hair, and the comb follows. Goosebumps run down his spine, his toes curl -

And then comb catches on the first knot.

Bilbo’s hair has, he is painfully reminded, always been prone to knotting, tangling, and generally being a mess, much to parents’ despair.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin stutters, surprised. Bilbo bites down on his lower lip, as the dwarf tries to untangle the knot with a tug. The painful pull doesn’t resolve the problem, and Bilbo senses the confusion in Thorin.

“Just force it through,” he hisses through his teeth. It will hurt but it’s the only way.

Thorin hesitates. “But that …”

“It’s alright,” Bilbo assures. “My hair’s just that way.”

Thorin remains skeptic. And he does try his best to make the process less painful for Bilbo. In the end, the act of brushing Bilbo’s hair, however, is not all that intimate, but rather uncomfortable for both of them.

“Is all hobbit hair like this?” Thorin asks, trying not to let his own bewilderment show too much.

Bilbo, blinking back tears from another nasty pull. “Not all,” he manages. “But there’s a tendency to develop bad knots in both sides of my family.” It’s the reason why his mother had insisted on brushing her own hair at least twice a day. Bungo had simply kept his short.

Thorin doesn’t reply.

“I suppose it’s different with dwarven hair,” Bilbo forces out.

“It is,” Thorin answers. “Though Kili’s hair got badly tangled when he was young, too.”

“I can imagine,” Bilbo mutters, and his fingers curl in the fabric of his trousers as Thorin forces the comb through another knot. Soon, he tells himself, this will be over. Though he does wonder if it is worth it, or if he shouldn’t just have waited to go to Dale.

Eventually, the pain lessens. The knots have been detangled or pulled out. Thorin mournfully looks at the strands of blonde curls stuck to the comb; though now the device moves smoothly through Bilbo’s hair. The hobbit takes a deep breath and allows his shoulders to relax.

He tries not to read anything into the way Thorin’s hands linger on his hair now that the tangles have been undone. The way he continues to comb through, slow and methodically. Touching hair, Bilbo knows, is reserved for family or lovers.

As are rooms in the palace’s royal wing, just across from the King’s own chambers. Giving clothes, spending time together - the intimacy the two have shared in the last months has Bilbo’s heart hoping against hope. He knows it cannot be, knows that the future must come.

But he loves Thorin, and while he cannot know for sure, he thinks Thorin has feelings for him as well.

A rustle draws him from his contemplations. Thorin has set aside the comb, and instead begun to weave Bilbo’s curls into braids with skilled, dexterous fingers. Bilbo sits as still as he can, scarcely daring to breathe, and wondering what type of braid Thorin twists his hair into. Probably a simple, utilitarian one - that would be the easiest.

“Bilbo,” Thorin begins, an odd note to his voice. “Earlier today, I was thinking. You ought to have proper beads for your hair, and I presumed you did not yet have any?”

Beads, Bilbo has learned, have an importance for dwarves hobbits only ascribe to special family heirlooms and engagement rings. For Thorin to ask if he has beads -

Bilbo swallows, pressing his sweaty palms against his knees. “I don’t. Back in the Shire we use ribbons to tie off braids.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have these,” Thorin replies evenly. “I did take the liberty to make beads for you, I hope you -”

“Make?” Bilbo echoes, incredulous, breathless.

He wishes he could see Thorin’s face. The dwarf’s fingers hesitate; one hand reaches to pluck something from the leather pouch on the table. Bilbo scarcely dares to breathe; mind racing without a clear thought forming.

One arm reaches around Bilbo and a hand opens to display two fine, golden beads resting against its palm. They bear beautiful carvings and runes Bilbo cannot decipher; but knowing Thorin forged these himself renders him dizzy.

Beads. For him.

“You made these yourself?” he asks again, dimly recalling Gloin complaining about the sudden change in schedule.

Thorin’s fingers close around the beads again. “Yes,” he confirms heavily. “I wanted you to have these.” There’s a confession in those words.

“Thank you,” Bilbo mumbles, dumbfounded. Thorin can’t mean -

“They are for you, Bilbo,” Thorin emphasizes. “Only for you.”

Bilbo swallows hard. His fingers tremble, so he grips the fabric of his trousers tightly. He wonders, wonders so badly. “Thorin,” he says, breathlessly. “What do these mean?”

The King under the Mountain falls silent. For a moment, neither of them seems to move or breathe. Then, Thorin exhales.

“Love,” he says quietly.

“What?” Bilbo breathes.

“Love,” Thorin repeats. “These say I love you.” He swallows. Bilbo’s head spins. “I realize this is quite forward, and probably looks presumptuous, but their meaning only declares my love for you; there is no requirement -”

“Thorin,” Bilbo interrupts gently. He turns around on the ottoman, catches Thorin’s eyes. He finds the same mixture of sadness and affection there that has plagued his own soul. They are idiots, both of them.

“Thorin, I love them,” he says, reaching out to clasp Thorin’s hand with his own. “I love you.”

Thorin’s eyes widen. “You…”

Bilbo smiles. “We are both fools, I suppose. I have loved you for quite some time now, Thorin Oakenshield.” He tightens his grip on Thorin’s hand. Though already, in his heart, he recalls his own doubts. The looming future.

“I will wear these with pride,” Bilbo promises. “As long as I can.”

Thorin must have picked up on the wistful note in his voice. “They are yours,” he assures. “Wear them as long as you wish.”

Bilbo looks down, unable to suppress the sad tilt to his smile. “Won’t it be improper?” he asks heavily. “Once spring comes, and others will return to the mountain? You are the King, and I’m just a hobbit from the distant west.”

A hand gently settles against his cheek and forces Bilbo’s head up. Thorin catches his eye, quiet determination written across his own features. “Not among dwarves,” he replies, and surprise rushes through Bilbo. “I do not know about hobbit customs, but we dwarves consider private matters exactly that - who we love is our own choice regardless of our station.”

Bilbo blinks. Of all things, he had not expected that. Men, elves, hobbits, they all can be small-minded regarding marriage and partnerships.

Thorin smiles, a little sheepish. “I have another confession to make,” he admits. “By the standards of my people, I have also been courting you. Unfairly so, as you had no chance at guessing my purpose. However, rest assured, I never had any intention of tying you down or forcing you into any sort of partnership. I will have whatever relationship you will offer me and be content with that.”

His mind still spins from the first revelation. Now Bilbo feels as if his heart is about to burst. He’s been right all along, he thinks, all the suspicions he brushed aside as daydreams were true. And all he can do is shake his head at himself, while a wide, incredulous laugh bubbles up from within his chest.

“You…” he can’t find the right word. “You… Thorin, you … I … all this time I’ve been telling myself I’m seeing things that aren’t there. That this is wishful thinking on my part. And you…”

Thorin hangs his head, but a smile remains on his lips. “I’m afraid I had no idea how your people courts,” he says. “Erebor’s library doesn’t have any books on hobbit customs at all.”

Bilbo laughs. And then he reaches out, puts one hand behind Thorin’s neck and presses himself forward. When but a hand’s breadth is left between their faces, Bilbo looks up and finds Thorin’s eyes as wide as his own.

“Consider this,” he says, “the hobbit way of courting.”

And with that he closes the distance and presses his lips to Thorin’s.

_The End_

Spring comes, and Bilbo does travel to the Shire where he yells at various neighbors and family members, has some trouble of getting himself declared not-dead, and then in a fit of spite decides he’d rather have his tablespoons ferried all the way to Erebor (where they have more than enough silver spoons) then leave them in Lobelia’s reach. By autumn he’s back in the east, and this time he is there to stay.

For Thorin.


End file.
